


through sandstorms and hazy dawns

by Makalaure



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: "Robin," Bruce grinds out, "stop talking. You need to stay sharp."Dick knows he is walking a fine, fine line. "Aw, come on, B," he says, going for cheerful but feeling like something in him, something he has kept carefully in check till now, is about to snap.





	through sandstorms and hazy dawns

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Batman fic and I'm still new to the comics, so there may be canon I'm unaware of. You may recognise some dialogue from _Robin: Year One_ and _Batman: the Animated Series_. 
> 
> Title from 'The Sore Feet Song' by Ally Kerr.
> 
> Tumblr: lilaclotuses

  **through sandstorms and hazy dawns**

Sometimes, in his dreams, Dick warns his parents. Sometimes he tells Haly. Sometimes he chases after Zucco, telling to get out of the circus. Once, he strangles him with the rope he cut.

John and Mary Grayson always die.

The dreams occur till Dick doesn't want to sleep at all, and he spends his nights wandering the manor and the gardens, a blanket around his shoulders. When Alfred falls sick, Dick makes himself coffee to stay alert in school, and spends the day with his hands shaking and his heart hammering, thinking of Bruce, for some reason, of his broad square shoulders and cleft chin and kindly, perfect smile. (Dick knows what the results of rehearsal look like.)

He collapses in the manor gardens the next night, amid the flowerbeds and fireflies.

When he comes to, through the grey haze of his thoughts he realises that he is being carried. "Bruce?" he slurs, because the hands beneath him are massive and callused and cannot be Alfred's.

"Dick," says Bruce, voice heavy with relief, and Dick is puzzled. He is only Bruce's ward, a charity case flicked from a travelling circus. Then Bruce says, "You _scared_ me," in a hoarse whisper, and it sounds like the most honest thing that has come out of his mouth since they met. (This one wasn't rehearsed.)

***

So sue him, he's attached to the name Robin. Even if robins aren't really the first sign of spring, he likes the symbolism, the images it brings to mind, of melting snow and of the sun sweeping away the shadows of a long night. More than that, it is the name his mother gave him, and he will honour it.

" _Robin_?" scoffs a man who had been in the midst of stealing a purse from an old lady (honestly, the _cliche_ ). "You think you can strike fear into the hearts of your enemies with a pansy-ass name like _that_?"

"You're right," says Dick, chipper as a squirrel, and slams a kick into the man's solar plexus.

***

This time of the year, just before Christmas, Dick would help his mother make custard and jelly. Neither of his parents had been practicing Christians, but it turned into a sort of tradition to make pudding, and it was tasty and he would feel all cosy when he snuggled next to his mother. He liked the smell of the custard, the texture of the jelly in his mouth, the sight of the blackened pots and pans on the makeshift counter.

This year, he is on patrol with Bruce, and the wind is like needles against his skin as they prowl through alleys and leap across rooftops. Dick can't stop yammering – it's the only way he can distract himself, make himself forget about Haly's. "And then there's this kid in class, right, and I thought he was kinda mean 'cause he'd keep throwing glue-balls at my head, but then I met him on the swings one day during lunch break – "

"Robin," Bruce grinds out, "stop talking. You need to stay sharp."

Dick knows he is walking a fine, fine line. "Aw, come on, B," he says, going for cheerful but feeling like something in him, something he has kept carefully in check till now, is about to snap, "lighten up. Crime is down this time of year. You just can't stand the idea that this old gargoyle of a city doesn't need us for one night."

Bruce stops so abruptly that Dick, in his effort to do so as well, skids and trips and nearly collides with a balustrade. "Batman?" he says, turning around. Their breath comes out in grey plumes. For a second, it is silent.

"When are you going to stop treating this like a joke?" Bruce snaps.

Dick tenses; Bruce has never used that tone with him before. In the past months, Bruce has been stern, and grave, and at times kind and sunny. But he has never been angry. Not with Dick. In the thin moonlight, he looms above him, his face all but melted into shadow.

"Batman," Dick says, hating the way his voice wavers, "come on, I didn't mean – "

"Don't bullshit me," Bruce says, taking a step forward.

Dick flinches back with a quiet, startled gasp, and raises his arms in front of his head. Is Bruce going to hit him? He hopes Bruce won't use a stick or belt. It's going to hurt anyway, but Dick doesn't think he can bear the humiliation, doesn't think he'll be able to look Bruce in the eye again, knowing he failed him so badly.

When he dares to look at Bruce, the man seems to have deflated. Bruce raises his hands as though in surrender, and he looks...pained. He takes another step towards Dick, gentler this time, as though approaching a skittish animal. Dick doesn't move, barely breathes. What is Bruce playing at?

"Robin," murmurs Bruce, soft and wary. He doesn't say _sorry_ , but Dick hears it anyway. Bruce sighs and passes a hand over his eyes, and Dick panics because oh God, is Bruce reconsidering letting him be Robin? No. Robin is all he has. All that has any meaning for him now. All that's left of his mother.

"I'm sorry," Dick babbles, "I'll get it together, I will. Come on, I won't talk anymore, let's just finish the patrol – "

Bruce holds up a hand. "I'm taking you off patrol for the night. Get some rest."

"Batman!"

"Go home. Ask Alfred to make you something hot."

And then Bruce is gone, swinging onto another rooftop, and Dick would follow but he's numb and shaking. He stands there, dithering, until he decides he couldn't find Bruce anyway now, and trudges back towards the manor.

When he reaches, he doesn't alert Alfred. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and stands in front of the cupboards in the dim light. He considers making custard, but as he reaches out for the cornstarch, he realises he would hate making it alone, and would hate eating it alone too. He thinks about waking Alfred, but then shakes his head, his eyes stinging with tears that he hastily blinks away. Alfred isn't family, and he shouldn't wake the man from his much-needed sleep just because he's being a big baby.

He does make himself peppermint tea, and sits at the island, the cup steaming in his hands. In the quiet of the late night, he severely dislikes this pristine kitchen, the cool clean tiles, the rosewood cabinets, the shiny coffee machine, all of it. The saucers are all free of marks and put away, the plates neatly stacked, the stove clear of stains. It just reminds him of how completely, wholly alone he is.

He plans to go back to his room, but ends up sitting there till the light of the rising sun begins to filter through the bay windows. Around 6 am, Alfred's voice floats across from the door. "Master Richard? What are you doing awake so early? Weren't you on patrol last night?"

Dick is too exhausted to reply. He'd sat up for hours resenting this massive, organised kitchen, and right now, all he wants to do is crawl into a corner and stay there.

"Oh, Master Richard," Alfred says, in the same tone that Bruce had used last night. And then, to Dick's puzzlement and surprise, Alfred's wiry arms come around him, and he is lifted off the stool and carted off to the couch in the living room. Alfred sits down, Dick still in his lap, and tightens his embrace. "Oh, my boy," he croons, rocking him slightly. "Please do not fret so. It will all be better, you'll see." He brushes Dick's hair from his forehead, making soft, comforting noises.

Dick starts to cry. He can handle sharp words and raised voices, but affection reminds him of his parents and he can still hear the snap of the ropes, the sound of their bodies breaking as they hit the ground. He puts his arms around Alfred's neck and howls, his shoulders shaking. They stay that way, Alfred rocking him, saying It will be all right, dear boy, just you wait, you are so strong and brave and kind.

"Alfred?" he hears Bruce say, and Dick is too tired to wipe his face or move to spare himself the embarrassment of being caught like this. "Where's my coffee? I asked for it half an hour ago and – "

There is a pause, during which Dick can practically feel Bruce's shock and Alfred's cold disapproval.

"What on earth," says Alfred, "did you say to the boy, Master Bruce?"

Stubborn, guilty silence.

"He didn't do nothin', Alfred..." Dick begins in a thick voice, but Alfred interrupts him.

"I found him sitting at the kitchen island at six in the morning, unmoving, just staring at a blasted cup of tea in his hands." He isn't shouting, but he is livid. Dick squirms, wanting to get away.

"Dick," says Bruce, "would you excuse us, please?"

Dick scrambles off Alfred's lap, wiping his face with the front of his tunic, and shuts the heavy wooden doors behind him. Instead of going to his room, he leans against the wall and slides to the ground, curling up. He can hear Bruce and Alfred arguing inside, muffled voices that eventually rise to shouts. It's the worst argument he's ever heard between them. He snatches only parts of it, the words phasing in and out of his range of hearing: "Irresponsible" and "Are you mad?" and "What did you expect me to do?" and "Orphanage" and "Trauma". Dick can't stand it, feels guilty knowing he's the cause of this row, but can't bring himself to stop listening either.

Abruptly, Bruce bursts through the doors, features pinched and mouth curled in a scowl. He stops when he sees Dick, his blue eyes going wide. His skin is so white, so unlike Dick's own, which is still paler than his father's had been.

"Dick," says Bruce, and then, before Dick can protest, scoops him up and begins to carry him towards Dick's room. Dick should demand to be put down, he's Robin, the Boy Wonder, who patrols with the Dark Knight. But he only wraps his legs around Bruce and sticks his nose into his neck, getting a whiff of his pine shampoo.

Bruce deposits him on his bed and pulls up the covers.

"I'm not sleepy," says Dick, and he isn't.

"Just rest," says Bruce. His voice is deep and low and strangely soothing. Dick wonders if he'll have a voice like that when he grows up. Then he remembers he doesn't want to be like Bruce, and hopes it won't.

***

It doesn't take long for the city's villains to pick up on the fact that, aside from being a touch young, Dick doesn't look like Gotham's usual heroes. Their chattier adversaries, to Dick's dismay and annoyance, begin to point it out. Unnecessarily. Dick is used to being stared at – he _had_ been a performer, and a damn good one – but it's different in the crossfire of a gang war.

In mid-February, he and Bruce intercept a pimp who sells women to wealthy businessmen. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't surrender when Bruce asks him to come along nicely. What _is_ surprising is the way he leers at Dick, raking his eyes over him till they settle on his upper thighs, and Dick feels a shock of embarrassment, unused to such blatant lechery aimed in his direction. "What the hell are you looking at?" he says, flustered and off-balance, the way Bruce tells him not to be.

The man doesn't reply, doesn't even aim his gun at them. Instead, in a stunning display of dull-wittedness, he addresses Bruce, who is standing ramrod straight. "Lay off, Batman, I got stuff to do; I'm sure you got bigger fish to fry. So why don't you take your exotic little pretty boy and return him to whatever whorehouse he – "

Dick couldn't have predicted the uppercut; Bruce never uses unnecessary force. He blinks, gobsmacked, at the pimp, who is on the ground nursing a swelling jaw that may well be broken. The gun lies several feet away, useless.

"You talk about him like that again," says Bruce, very calm and still, "and that punch will be the least painful part of your evening."

It's not the last time a perp projects his bizarre fantasies onto Dick, but it _is_ the last time Dick doesn't take the swing himself.

***

Dick usually tolerates the times Bruce brings home random women. Bruce always says something about 'maintaining a persona', but Dick doesn't see the point. Why confuse the populace by donating ludicrous amounts of money to charities, being a competent member of the WE board, and then messing around with women like you don't care? Someone's got to guess it doesn't add up. (Evidently, people in Gotham are fools.)

Tonight, Dick is especially annoyed, and shows it by slurping loudly at his hot chocolate.

"You do an envious impression of a caveman, Master Richard," says Alfred from where he is mixing batter for cookies at the counter. It is the perfect night for a cosy gathering in the kitchen, with the late winter chill and the wind whistling through the trees. Too bad Bruce had to go and ruin it by spending his time with some buxom blonde who can't see beyond his expensive suit and designer watch. Victoria or Veronica or something. Dick is secretly of the opinion that people whose names start with V are evil.

"You think she's a witch?" Dick muses, licking chocolate off his upper lip.

" _Master Richard_."

"I'm serious, I thought I saw her eyes glow red. " He didn't, but he is feeling especially vicious towards anyone who is currently taking up Bruce's attention. He'll feel bad about it later, but for now, he takes gleeful pleasure in imagining how Bruce will be in for a nasty shock, maybe a curse or two, and realise he should have stayed with Dick and Alfred instead.

"Master Bruce can do as he pleases – "

"And I'm pretty sure she levitated when Bruce wasn't looking. Hey, it's a dark and stormy night, maybe she really is a witch."

"There is no such thing as witches," Alfred sniffs, beginning to squeeze the batter into a tray. "And most of the women Master Bruce brings home are perfectly lovely."

"I know _that_ ," says Dick, indignant. "But come on, we have seen some _stuff_ , it's totally possible that witches exist and she is one. Maybe she'll draw a pentagon over the floor with blood and we'll need to call a priest."

"I find your fascination with the macabre disturbing."

"I was born in a circus, I find the Joker more offensive to comedic entertainment than scary."

"Why don't we continue this enthralling conversation tomorrow? I find the taste of biscuits to be spoiled when talking of such things."

"Oh, fine, but only 'cause you – "

There is the sound of someone running, and the kitchen door bursts open. Bruce stands there, in a shirt ripped at the shoulder and hanging off his chest, breathing hard. He's got a fantastic black eye. Dick whistles. Alfred sighs. From behind Bruce, there is the faint, grating sound of high-pitched shrieking.

"She tried to _hex me_!" Bruce yells, sounding supremely offended. "We were sitting in bed – "

"I don't need to hear this!" Dick says, clapping his hands over his ears.

"And her eyes glowed red and she started chanting – "

"Master Bruce, as fascinating as all this is, don't you think you should take care of that?"

They all turn to find the witch standing in the hallway, baring her teeth in a not-smile. She hisses. Dick thinks she's a lot more interesting now, so he doesn't really mind that he has to abandon his hot chocolate. He takes one last, distracted swig before wiping his mouth and putting up his fists.

Bruce grabs a kitchen knife and bends his knees. "Dick, on your guard."

"I already am!"

"Just another night at the Wayne manor," says Alfred, resigned and a touch weary, and picks up a frying pan.

They stand there, Dick barefoot and in his striped pyjamas, Bruce in his now ruined smart casuals, and Alfred in his frilly pink apron with 'Do not do anything to the cook if you value your life' printed on it (a birthday gift from Dick). "I was wrong," Dick thinks, as plates crash and windows shatter and something behind him catches fire, if the smell of smoke is anything to go by.

Clearly, this woman is the best thing to happen to them all week.

***

It's a thrill, until it isn't.

Bruce's lower body is trapped beneath the rubble, and Dick had tried to get it off him but it's too heavy, so he'd called an ambulance and is now sitting uselessly on his knees by Bruce's side. He can't think about what an awful partner he's been, or how this could have been avoided if he'd caught the Riddler in time, or how this wouldn't have happened if Bruce hadn't had to shove him out of the way of a gunshot.

Bruce is pale, his features pinched with pain, his breathing ragged. He'd said he couldn't feel his legs, and what if he's paralysed, what if he's caught an infection that Leslie won't be able to treat, what if he doesn't make it and Dick is alone again, Alfred won't keep him if Bruce isn't there and he'll have to gosomewhereelse...

" _Bruce_ ," he chokes out, forgetting to use his alias. A high, animal whine emerges from his throat, and then he's crying, great gulping sobs that make his chest heave. He doesn't understand. He's been trained to remain calm, but suddenly he can't breathe and his chest feels tight, and all he can think of is a yawning void ahead of him. He wants to curl up. He wants –

"Robin," says Bruce, "breathe. Come on."

"I can't," Dick gasps, desperate, clutching the front of his tunic like a lifeline.

"You can. Count with me. One." Bruce's gloved hand rises to clasp Dick's, rough and perhaps harder than he intended.

"O-one."

They get to twenty before Dick's breathing finally begins to go back to normal. He's covered in sweat that's not from the fight, trembling.

"There you go," murmurs Bruce, letting his hand fall. And then his eyes roll back, and Dick spends the next ten minutes with his fingers in Bruce's matted, bloody hair, calling his name. But he's not panicking, and when the ambulance arrives, he gives the paramedics a succinct, accurate account of what happened, and watches as they begin to dig Bruce out.

***

"A neat little enclosure movement, Dick."

"Thanks, Bruce, but you took out three of them."

"But not with your...finesse." Bruce's eyes are twinkling, filled with pride and adoration and what Dick hopes is a touch of awe.

Moments like this are the best part of Dick's day. They come home back after a job well done, Alfred makes them some snacks, and it all feels like a tidy, pretty painting with its elements in place, nothing off, nothing unsure, nothing wasted.

Alfred asks, with uncharacteristic anxiety, "Are you happy?" and Dick is floored. He answers yes. Why would he not be? Barring his parents coming back to life and Dick rejoining Haly's, this is the best life he could ask for. This is Bruce's crusade, he admits. The arrogance is stupefying, but so is the kindness, the empathy. Bruce needs help, and Dick is the most suited person to offer it.

Dick appreciates Alfred's concern, but doesn't see another path for himself.

Doesn't know how to walk another one.

***

It is their second first patrol together. Dick is...more wary than before. He thought he had taken the brunt of what misery life had to offer, but...God.

The pain had been like nothing he could have imagined. All the insanity and violence he'd seen, and he still couldn't have guessed, not in a hundred years, what it felt like. It's on the news often enough: So-and-so beaten to death. Guy from high school. Woman who said no. Drug-dealer in Crime Alley. An endless string of them, names on a register, ink on paper. It had been easy to think, _Oh, that's awful_ , and then go back to his homework.

In the wake of it, the sounds were – are – the worst. He still jumps when a door closes, when shoes clack dully against the floor, when the kids at school kick around a soccer ball. It's all the same to him, a relentless, rhythmic pummeling, like beating meat. He caught Alfred once, in the kitchen, pounding away at mutton, pinkish blood staining the counter, and his knees had buckled. He'd spent the next ten minutes curled on the floor, head in his hands, Alfred trying to soothe him out of a panic attack.

Dick would have been more ink on more paper, _Wayne heir beaten to death with baseball bat_ , Bruce would have kept it, laminated it along with other vital documents, Alfred would have dusted it on the regular like he always does and that would be the end of the –

"Dick."

Dick is trained enough now that his body halts without stumbling. "Yeah, Batman?" he says, turning to face Bruce, who is perched on a gabled roof, the moon round and bright behind him. Bruce has been even more taciturn since the incident with Two-Face, his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched like he's always angry. He's twitchier too, quicker to suspect, slower to trust.

But they're fine. This is fine.

Bruce lets out a quiet sigh. "You know you don't...have to do this." It's unlike him to bring up things like this while on patrol; when they're on the job, there's nothing but the job. Dick suppresses his surprise.

"I want to."

"Robin...what happened..."

"Is an occupational hazard." They've had this conversation. Dick doesn't want to repeat it.

"It's not that simple. I still think you're too young. I was foolish, and should never have encouraged you."

"I'd be Robin anyway. I don't need a costume or a mask or your permission."

"I know." Bruce scrubs a hand over his face, his shoulders drooping like he's aged fifty years. "That's why I gave you back the costume. It's better you do this with me than alone."

"I'm not incompetent, Batman."

" _No_ ," says Bruce, looking up, and Dick is struck by how earnest he sounds. "No, Robin, you are the furthest thing from that. I mess up, too. I can't save everyone, either. I blamed you for Judge Watkins' death because I wanted to distance you from vigilantism, but I see now that I'd been foolish and needlessly cruel."

Dick is not sure how to react to this Batman, who is laying bare not only his feelings but also his failures. "I..." His vocabulary seems to have dried up. All he's left with is his emotions and the churning in his gut, like he's swinging from a trapeze in front of a beaming audience. So he just does what he wants to do: he leaps across the roof and throws his arms around Bruce, burying his face in his Kevlar vest. Bruce smells of sweat and wind and metal and Dick loves it, he loves this, and to hell with Two-Face, with the Joker, with all the other criminals of this godforsaken city; they can't take this away from Dick.

Bruce rests his hand gently on top of Dick's head, ruffles the curls. "You," he says, his voice rising like a prayer, "are such an _extraordinary_ boy."

-end-


End file.
